Coffee
by DevonWren
Summary: Set in the future, as in after High School . Kurt's gone down hill a bit, and Noah wants to help. Possible Puckurt, I haven't decided yet. Rating will change.


_**Just something I did this afternoon after staring at my wall for a while. I don't know whether I'll continue – if I do, it'll be when I've decided where it's going.**_

_**Please tell me if you like it, or if you don't – I've become quite partial to a good bit of constructive criticism**__**. Characters are a bit OOC. Sorry.**_

_**R&R x**_

Coffee

Cussing, cursing and then threatening to chuck that stupid boss of his out of a window was how Kurt had begun his day. Not intentionally, of course. He'd actually woken up in a sickeningly good mood: admittedly, nothing an arrogant mid-fifties man who, he might add, was lacking in any fashion know-how and proceeded to then _defend_ his '_No_' t-shirt (because that's what it read), with a kind of fervour even Kurt only reserved for something truly spectacular, couldn't diminish. All he'd offered was a well-intentioned opinion - from Kurt's point of view he'd rightly pointed out the fact that it was, for want of a harsher word,_ atrocious_. True, he reminded himself, he _was_ working in IT. People who work in IT can't be expected to worry about these sorts of things, and possibly excused for minor offences. That was _not_ to say, however, that Kurt belonged as part of that rule; no, he was very much exempt.

Still, the depressingly white corridors; cheap grey (because the manufacturers obviously hadn't been able to afford anything that was any closer to the white they'd intended) desks, that were heavily stained by interlocking patterns that were perpetually associated with the base of coffee mugs; and the unavoidable truth that the windows _did not_ open, keeping the smell of inexpensive, and therefore hideously damaging, cleaning products and the unsaturated stench of a pastry from wherever; brought home the truth that he really _was_ part of that rule.

Sitting at his desk, he swept the collection of cookie crumbs that were just in front of the keyboard, and wrinkled his nose because Jeff from Floor 7 had never properly learnt where his mouth was, and still insisted on joining him for chemical vending-machine coffee, and cookies that Kurt never touched, every morning. Things could be worse, he supposed: he could actually be made to do work in the mornings. He thought he preferred Jeff's awful breath. It was interesting, though, to see how few e-mails he'd received in the short half an hour he'd been in the Boss' office trying to defend his job - he was short on money as it was, and his wardrobe could hardly be expected to support itself - none of them, ordinarily, were remotely personal or even addressed to him - Just to 'S_ir_' or 'S_ir/Madam'_, or, should things get really riveting, '_To whom it may concern_'. He'd tried to explain to the Basement guys that they needed to sort out the spam filter, but they'd been too dosed-up on Caffeine to be trusted with remembering things. After all, how else could they be expected to get through the day? Well, that's presuming that it _was _Caffeine... His eyes lost focus and his brows furrowed for a moment... No, don't be stupid.

Sometimes, Kurt felt a bit guilty; looking around at all his fellow employees, all of whom he never built up the courage to look in the eye, he was overwhelmed by the knowledge that he shouldn't even have this job. Knowing that one is a fraud is a tough burden to bear, especially when it meant that stopping for a second to take a break and rest your shoulders was not a viable option or you might be unemployed and unable to pay the rent. But what else was he supposed to have done? He'd left school, just like everyone else, with Dreams bigger than Ohio's elastic waist-band and with no idea about how to realise them. So, he'd done the only thing he'd thought possible: he'd lied. Through his teeth. Listening to his conscience snarling and grunting and howling away, because he felt like such a Dr Jekyll. Only at work, he was Mr Hyde - in more ways than one. People knew not to bother him now.

Occasionally he'd wonder if anyone from McKinley High had ever gotten anywhere; if they'd actually made the big time. Maybe one of them owned this god-forsaken company? Maybe he was their minion. No. Kurt Hummel answered to nobody. Except Michael Worthingham - the stuck-up Englishman who ran this department - and the janitor. Although, when it came to Eddie, he wished they'd just hurry up and fire him, already. It wasn't even as if he did his job. The hand sanitizer that Kurt carried on him at all times, no exceptions, should have been evidence enough of his incompetence. But who ever listened to Mr Hyde, anyway? People just ran away screaming. Or, in Kurt's case, just stood motionless and silent until his manic-depressive rants and socially-deprived anger had cooled down.

Yes, Kurt had changed. Half the time he wondered if he should have listened to Bryan Ryan and quit while he was ahead and still had the good memories. He could have got a proper degree, and learnt how to do something other than sing and dance and be bitter about not being allowed to sing and dance. Out of everyone in the Glee Club, he'd thought that he'd have been the least likely to end up in a place like this. The feeling of being hideously wrong stunk of last night's beer.

Somewhere amidst staring at his blank computer screen; waiting for someone to forget how to open Microsoft Word, or to need help plugging the red wire into the red plug, the white into the white, the yellow into the yellow etc; and cursing everything he'd never done, Kurt didn't notice when someone tall, dark and very recognisable was shown over to his cubicle. "Kurt?" the 'someone' asked, and Kurt nearly forgot to look up. It wasn't even as if he cared...

"Noah?" he squawked, immediately standing up and knocking his pen-pot over - something he didn't then try to pick up. "What are you doing here?"

"I think I should be asking _you_ that question," He remarked, grinning from ear to ear as Kurt's face flushed pink. Kurt's appearance was so important to him.

"I don't work here." He snapped, raising an eyebrow and returning to the somewhat snide ways that Puck recognised, only this time, there was doubled hostility. Even the scarlet tinge to his cheeks wasn't warm enough to break the chill in his voice, "I was just paying someone a visit. A friend of mine. Jeff his name is. He wanted some money because he's falling behind on his rent, and I'm making enough through my acting that I can afford to sub him,"

"Are _you sure _you don't work here?" Puck ventured, deliberately not biting the bait regarding Kurt's supposed 'acting'. He'd been to enough shows to know that it was a lie. And plus, Kurt had a mug with his name on it beside the monitor. The Kurt Hummel from William McKinley wouldn't have touched one of those with gloves dipped in gold after being paid a billion dollars. Maybe it was a gift from Jeff. Puck internally chuckled at the thought.

"How can I _not_ be sure? Have you seen this place? The employees may as well all be vampires, because, and don't let their open eyes deceive you; they're all asleep for the entire day. That and they're even paler than me. And, from what I've seen, their attitudes are disgusting: never crack a smile, any of them. Don't get me started on their incapability to dress themselves in the morning, because frankly, their attire is usually offensive. There are the grubby floors that Eddie- er, I mean the Janitor, obviously hasn't mopped in nearly two years-"

"You've been working here two years?"

"Noah, I said I didn't work here." His fists clenched at his sides, and behind his closed lips his teeth were gritted.

Puck smiled knowingly, "You should keep your voice down; they might hear you."

"So what if they do? I'll most likely never see them again." Kurt quipped in return.

"Why? Are you resigning?"

"I've told you," Kurt hissed, "I don't work here!"

"Of course." Puck stifled a laugh at the child who just had his ice-dream stolen.

Kurt settled back into the chair that he was now adamant wasn't his, with the air of someone who was above everyone and brushed their teeth five times a day.

"So where's this 'Jeff' that you're so fond of?" Puck looked around him, tucking his hands into his pockets and feigning interest because he could see it was winding Kurt up.

"He's gone to get Coffee."

"I'd like to meet him; he sounds like a good guy."

Kurt snorted, remembering the long Call-Of-Duty-orientated conversation they'd engaged in so many suicide-inducing times. He couldn't help but reckon that Puck and Jeff would get on like a house on fire. The high school Puck anyway. "He'll be a while; the lifts have a tendency to break down at around this time,"

"A quarter to three?"

"Huh?"

"Quarter to three, that's when they break down?"

"Yes."

Puck grinned again, "I'll wait."

Kurt sighed, "Why are you even here? I haven't spoken to you in nearly three years." In the silence that followed, Puck shrugged his shoulders in a non-committal way, and Kurt took a moment to observe how little the boy had changed. There was still the shaved head - Mohawk-less - facially he hadn't altered, not that that was a surprise, still having not reached the age where he'd either gain or lose a load of weight - a time Kurt was dreading like he dreaded Sunday evenings with his dad and Carole's cooking: there remained a dark shadow that covered his eyes that made Kurt's tummy want to rumble in fear, but also a nonchalant set of his mouth that made him think there was no need. His arms were hanging loosely at his sides and hand gently rested in the pockets of expensive jeans. Okay, so some things had changed.

"All in good time," Puck muttered, because he loved to irritate people, and it made him feel mysterious. Like he was out of a book.

Kurt just looked at him like he was an idiot, "Please, just tell me, so you can go,"

"What? And miss chatting to Jeff? Are you insane?" Puck was getting into this now, he'd missed winding Kurt up - because, let's face it, an angry annoyed Kurt was so much more fun than a calm, amicable one. It was like he just mutated into a small adorable little puppy but still retained the ability to turn completely rouge at any given point, and had a tongue that was reminiscent of a viper's.

"No, but I'm beginning to think that you are."

Puck smiled, and Kurt blushed a bit, "How's Finn?"

"He's the Wal-Mart people greeter. Not the best job in the world, but not everyone can have everything."

"You mean like you?"

"Yeah, I guess. And you: by the look of your jeans."

Shoulders were raised indifferently, and Puck pulled a face that Kurt guessed was him resisting the urge for a cigarette. He didn't comment. Admittedly, he'd never thought Puck would smoke, but Kurt, himself, was evidence enough that things didn't always work out the way you'd expect.

"Come on." He exhaled deeply, secretly wanting the drag this conversation out as long as Puck's attention span would allow. This was the first time he'd engaged with someone and not wanted to gouge his eyes out or just pass out (because unconsciousness seemed to be the only place Kurt felt entirely at home) "What is it? You wouldn't just turn up here for nothing and stare at me like that."

Puck was grinning again, and Kurt remembered it from the corridors. He leant forwards, letting Kurt see the sparkle in his eye that reeked _'I've got a plan_', and then announced, in a voice that was so not Noah Puckerman, _"_You better start writing your letter of resignation, because I'm your ticket out of here."

Kurt didn't bother restating that this was '_most definitely not where he worked_'.

_**Thanks for reading, and please R&R to tell me if I should continue **_

_**x**_


End file.
